NO EDITS
Trauma Steals
The Sad Song of a Pretty Fat Girl
I’ve wanted to write this for some time, but people-pleasing has gotten in the way of it. Fawning. Fear.
Trauma. Trauma is always in my way.
I know that i can push past it and survive, but still, it’s no easy task.
A tragic loss tripped me up, and i’ve been losing time, and not a small amount. I will move through the grief to find what lies on the other side for me, but there’s trouble yet afoot. If i don’t deal with it, i may fall further back into the cold comfort of dissociation. It’s the lie that i don’t always know i’m telling.
The fully dissociated life is a dangerous one.
There are parts of me that have been activated, parts that exist in a reality that sets me up for harm. It’s a life of illusion.
I’ve worked very hard to be a real, live girl, to be more than my torture porn childhood.
This is fucking vague, isn’t it?
Okay, it’s only fair that i flesh it out enough that this piece isn’t a total wankfest.
Isn’t it ironic that the best writers let go of control over their narratives?
Maybe that’s not true and it only sounds cool.
It does sound cool though, eh?
